The World: According to Rachael (35 page)

I should stop him, but I can offer no balm to soothe his wounds. I know that he’s right. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those movies where the character spends the first one hour and fifty minutes seeing the world one way. Then, the last ten minutes of it, the audience and the main character discover that it took place in her mind, or that she’s dead, or some other absurd Hollywood plot twist.

My universe shifts on its axis, and I don’t know what to do. My problem just stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door. He is waiting for me to agree to something that I can’t do. I can’t bring such scrutiny to the White House. Every press conference, Evan will be forced to answer questions about things that the Sons of Liberty said on the radio show. I can just hear it now.
“Does the White House secretly endorse candidate so and so for president? Why do I ask? Because the Sons of Liberty endorsed him this morning and since one of them is dating the Chief of Staff …”
I shake my head at the thought.
No.
The President’s last year is just too important. I can’t be the cause of anything to mar his legacy, and that includes protecting him from the press finding out about his disease.

The bathroom door flies open, and Graham walks to his suitcase, but he pauses and then turns towards me, offering his hand. I grab it and rise to my feet. His eyes.
God, those eyes.
They probe my soul. I stand there, looking up into the dark blue abyss. Pleading with him to see that this is the only way. Right now, the only way that we can be together is behind closed doors. In a year—just one short year—we can be as public as he wants.

He grabs my shoulders and I tilt my chin up so our eyes lock. “Say something, Rachael. Stop me from leaving. Tell me that we can continue moving forward. Tell me that you’ll still meet my family. I want to hear that you’re going to stand by my side and support me when we tell our listeners who we really are. Tell me that you’re going to be in the front row for our first live show. Be my partner in this. Take the heat at the White House. Do it because you want me more than you want your job. The same job that ends in a year.” He’s imploring me with his eyes.

I want to agree to everything. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tell him that yes, I’ll do all of those things. But I can’t. Maybe when President Jones and I have the word
former
added at the beginning of our job titles I can do all the things that he asks.

My silence speaks for my heart as I drop my eyes, and Graham knows it. He kisses my forehead. “Well, then this is goodbye.”

Suddenly, I remember the crazy curvy road through the dark woods to leave Colin and Caroline’s place. “Stay tonight.”

“So we can drag this out more? I don’t think my heart can take it,” he replies sardonically. He picks up his suitcase and walks out of the bedroom through the front door and to his waiting car.

“Please,” I beg. “The road through the woods is so curvy, and it’s dark. I’ll sleep on the couch. You take the bed.”

He puts his bag in the trunk and slams it shut. “I’d rather take my chances on the road.”

It’s a chilly night. The wind is blowing against my face that’s hot with tears.
He’s really leaving me.

I can’t stand to watch him pull away so I turn around and walk back into the guesthouse, letting the door close behind me. A minute later, I hear his rental car roar to life, and headlights briefly brighten the dark guesthouse as he makes a U-turn.

I say in disbelief to no one in particular, “He just left me.”

I walk outside to the balcony that overlooks Lake CharCol, and grab my forgotten bottle of wine and glass. I take a swig out of the bottle like Graham did, and for the first time in my life I have no idea what tomorrow has in store. All I see is blackness. I’m right back where I was before Graham Jackson stormed my life. Alone. Except now, I’ve drunk from the golden challis. I’ve had a taste of what I’ve been missing.

Can I go back? Can I give up the idea of waking every morning next to him? Do I have the ability to let go of my dream to have his baby?

I repeat over and over again in my mind,
You were fine before Graham, and you’ll be fine after him.
I pull another swig from the bottle. Now, I just have to make my heart believe it.

She’s like a ghost that moves through my life. Her red lipstick-stained wine glass still rests on my coffee table. Her image dances on my television screen. I can’t open a newspaper without reading her name. I see her across a crowded room. Our eyes lock for just a brief second before one of us realizes that we’ve both made a choice, and unfortunately, our choices mean we can’t be together.

Me? I refuse to be her secret. I am not going to be one of the men that she used for pleasure and nothing else. Hell, I didn’t even make love to her until I got know the real Rachael—not the Rachael that she shows to the public.

I love her. I want a life with her. What I want most of all, though, is for her to acknowledge that what we have is important. Important enough to at least be on the same level as her career.

I know what I’m asking. I know that I’m asking Rachael to go against the nature of her personality. I don’t need her to resign her position. I haven’t asked her to marry me. I just want her to try our relationship with the same determination that made her White House Chief of Staff.

Try what?

Dating in public. Her attending my events, and me escorting her to hers. Building a life together that includes shared experiences, dreams, and hopes. Working together as a team, and being supportive of each other. I don’t think any of this is too much to ask.

Without even giving it a shot, she’s decided that us—together—will be a thorn in the side of the White House. What I can’t make her understand is that maybe it will be no big deal. She’s certainly not the first person to be on the political firing lines and date someone controversial. I have more faith in the media and public in general. I believe that they can separate private lives from careers. She thinks I’m overestimating my fellow Americans.

Rachael wants to live in the shadows. Secret meetings. Dinner in front of the TV. To pretend that we are only acquaintances when we’re in public. Even though she says it’s only for a year, I know better. After the year is up, it will be that
it’s too soon
after Jones’ presidency ends. She’ll want to give it six more months. Then, it will be another year.

To use a sports analogy, she will not take her foot off of first base to steal second. She’s scared—terrified to publically admit that we’re in love.

I’ve seen her a few times since the disastrous evening at Caroline and Colin’s place. The first time was two weeks after I left her. She called me, but only let the phone ring once. I dialed her back, and could hear the sadness in her voice when she answered. It killed me. I jogged to her place and we spent a weekend together of doing nothing but watching old Steve Martin movies and making love. Both of us knew that nothing had changed, and I felt like shit when we said goodbye again.

The next time, I ran into her at the White House Christmas party. I knew she would be there, of course. I was invited by a friend—not someone who I was fucking, or a Betsy Ross—who is a staffer. We played a dangerous game of cat and mouse all night. However, I couldn’t take it any longer when I spied her on the dance floor with Roan Perez. My fists were so tight that I had fingernail indentions in my palms. I didn’t beat the shit out of the little prick, but God, I wanted to. That night ended with her bent over the arm of the couch in her office while I took her from behind. Once again, when it was time to go our separate ways, it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.

The last time that I laid eyes on her was six weeks ago. More specifically, it was the week before we revealed that we’re the Sons of Liberty. I waited for her on her front porch stoop until she arrived home from work, which was close to midnight. I was a pussy. I told her how much my life sucked without her in it. I pleaded for her to see that love conquers all, and all that razzle-dazzle bullshit. We both told each other how much we loved each other, and she begged me to be patient. We both gave in to the pull between us, and we made love—we didn’t fuck—all night long. But as the sun rose, before I left her—again—she confirmed that our relationship status hadn’t changed.

That’s why I am so damn confused why I’m driving two hours outside of Washington D.C. to meet her at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Her text was cryptic.

Rachael:
Reason #937 that boxing is better than MMA: Because I said so. Meet me for breakfast on Sunday at nine. I’ll send you the location.

Our first tour stop is next Saturday in Seattle, Washington. Tickets sold out in fifteen minutes. Sometimes, I have to stop and shake my head that this is really happening to me.

Here is my professional life that is crazy successful. Yet every night I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling, missing her. What I’ve learned from the three months and one week that we’ve been separated is that I can only be as happy as the unhappiest part of my life. The Sons of Liberty success is bittersweet because Rachael is not a part of it.

Max and Jake were against the idea of me meeting Rachael. They warned that nothing good would come of me pursuing a relationship with the White House Chief of Staff. They didn’t know about the profound impact that she had made on a lost twenty-something kid. I had to see if there was chemistry between us and my God, we’re combustible. They’ve tried to be supportive since we called it quits, but I’m not blind. They’re thrilled that we aren’t together, and she is no longer a distraction. Max and Jake believe that the Sons of Liberty are better with me single.

I pull into the parking lot and find a spot behind the restaurant. This place is packed on a Sunday morning. I grab my non-descript baseball hat off of the passenger seat, and tuck my hair up in it. It rests low on my forehead, and I slide my sunglasses on – the same ones that match hers.

I left my morning shadow. I’d like to say that it’s part of my plan to avoid recognition, but it’s not. She thinks my stubble is sexy and is more affectionate when I have it.
I know…I’m pathetic.

We’ve been on the cover of four magazines, and our faces have been shown almost nightly on the news. All three of us have quickly learned to downplay our appearances in public. Unfortunately for Max, there isn’t a prayer of him hiding that crazy red hair.

As I walk around to the front of the restaurant, I scan the parking lot looking for her. My watch says that I’m a few minutes early, but Rachael usually is also. She’s not playing checkers on the front porch, so I make my way into the restaurant’s gift shop. The place is filled with junk—knickknacks, figurines, sweets—is that clothes?

As I make my way to the hostess stand, I see her out of my peripheral vision exiting the restroom. She’s wearing jeans and a baggy jade-green sweater. Her hair is down in a braid over her right shoulder. Rachael looks nothing like the polished woman that is frequently photographed by the President’s side. In fact, she looks like a local college kid who stopped by for some pancakes.
I guess we both wear disguises.

I wave to her to get her attention, and when she sees me, a smile parts her heart-shaped cherry-red lips, and her large green eyes light up. Her fair skin is radiant. I love to leave marks on it, to see how beautifully the pink contrasts against the alabaster white. My dick twitches, reminding me how fucked in the head I still am.

Standing there like a fool, I wonder how I should greet her. A kiss on the cheek and a friendly hug? Offer her my hand? Or sweep her off of her feet and carry her out of this restaurant and back to my house, never letting her out of my bed until she realizes what a huge mistake that she’s making?

Fortunately, she chooses for me. She walks up and gives me a hug that doesn’t allow for any of our body parts to touch except for hands on the back.

“Hi. Love the stubble,” she says enthusiastically, and I’m relieved that I didn’t shave. “I was worried that you weren’t going to show.”

“I told you whenever and wherever, remember?” It comes out way harsher than I meant it. Her face falls, and I long to tuck her against my chest and tell her that I’m sorry and that I didn’t mean it that way. That I love her, and I’m just frustrated. She knows what we have is something most people never find, and that’s compatibility on top of incredible passion.

We’re next in line at the hostess stand at an absurdly crowded restaurant, but all I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. Just the close proximity to her makes me crazy. I would love to shake some sense into her—more like fuck some sense into her. I want to scream,
Feel this Rachael? Quit denying what we have.

She looks up at me with those large eyes through her thick black lashes and says, “Maybe this was a mistake.”

It feels like I’ve been kicked in the nads by a horse.
No, Rachael, this isn’t a mistake. We aren’t a mistake. In fact, we’re really damn good together.
Those are the words that I wish that I could say to her, but I can’t. Each and every time we’ve met up since we ended our relationship has been worse than the last. I can’t open myself up another time to have her shut me down.

“It’s your call. I’ve driven two hours to the middle of nowhere, and I’m a bit curious as to why, but if you think it’s a mistake, I can spend the rest of my Sunday packing.” My words are cold, and I hope that I’ve called her bluff because I’m way too curious as to why she arranged this meeting, especially this far removed from D.C.

“How many?” the older, grey-haired waitress asks me.

“Two.”

She grabs two sets of silverware that are rolled in a napkin, and Rachael and I follow her silently through the crowded restaurant.

She seats us by a window in the back corner. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for us to be tucked away, or if we need the constant reminder of the crowd to keep us in check.

The waitress takes our drink order and walks away.

“Where are our menus?” I ask, assuming she forgot them.